The Quakers are an oddity in religious terms because they have no creed, no hierarchy of authority, and no eternal text. This gives them the freedom to offer a space where other faiths can meet in safety - a vital role in these troubled times. It also means they can explore other faiths while remaining Quakers.

A book has recently been published called Patterns and Examples, in which a dozen Quakers describe their experiences of other faiths. One Quaker writes about Buddhist meditation, another about Hindu worship, others of Jewish family rituals, another about the current pagan revival, and a Muslim tells how he sometimes joins his wife at Quaker worship and offers his view on why the peaceful message of Islam has got buried under recent political upheavals.

The relatively neutral forum that Quakers can offer is backed by centuries of peace-making. It is also supported by the advice to "seek the truth which other people's opinions may contain for you" and "think it possible that you may be mistaken". Because it has no creeds, the Quaker way encourages a position not of "either/or" but of "both/and", or even "neither, but on the other hand ..."

This assumption of choice comes naturally in a secular society, but how can it function in a religious context? The key lies in two aspects of Quaker life: the no-hierarchy rule, and the rejection of eternal texts.

The no-hierarchy rule works by making the clerk, who's in the chair, into "servant of the meeting", and giving every member a voice in decision-making. There's no voting. The clerk listens to all contributions and reaches a "sense of the meeting". She or he offers a draft minute in the spirit of "Is this what we're deciding, friends?" Then the group has another go, until everyone assents. You need a high degree of trust for this process to work: trust that people will be honest and will honour their commitments. It's more time-consuming than voting, but it doesn't leave a minority in a state of seething rebellion.

And where does God come into it? In a decision-making context, the divine tends to mean something bigger than your needs or your opinions. Quakers talk about "the discipline", which means letting go of your own desire for power and influence. That's a truly scary task, and takes a lot of practice.

Then there's the absence of an eternal text. Quakers read the Bible and other religious books for inspiration and instruction, but not as scripture. Their book, Quaker Faith and Practice, is a cross between a theological anthology and a spiritual DIY manual. It's revised every generation, both to include more recent pieces and to rediscover older pieces that have acquired modern relevance. The crucial factor is that these pieces arise from the experience of Quakers. They're not the word of God; they're stories of people's experience of God. Some Quakers don't like to use the word God, because it's so easy to misunderstand, and use a word like spirit instead.

The Quakers were horrified by the government's now-abandoned proposals called Preventing Extremism in Places of Worship. To suggest creating new powers that would criminalise those responsible for a place of worship if they failed to prevent "extremist activity" on their premises was against the very atmosphere of trust that is needed if we are to encourage dialogue between people of different faiths. In any case, as with other anti-terrorist proposals currently making their way through the parliamentary process, "extremism" is as ill-defined a term as "glorification" and must be treated with equal caution.

Quakers want to encourage open discussion, not fear and censorship. Since 9/11 and 7/7, inter-faith understanding has been ever more necessary but ever more problematic. It's a delicate plant. It won't thrive in the tension and fear of repressive legislation. It needs the fertile soil of mutual understanding, which starts with a desire to listen and learn.

· Alison Leonard is a contributor to Patterns and Examples, published by Hampstead Interfaith Group and available from the Quaker Bookshop